


Suddenly I'm Respectable, Staring Right At'cha, Lousy With Stat'cha

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gen, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, ignoring that whedon ever erased Wanda and Pietro's backgrounds and ethnicity, only minor spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Iron Man! I need some backup over here!” Steve yells, ducking another of the blasts from the weird glowy thing the teenager is holding.<br/>	“I really would help, Cap, but I’ve got a bit of a situation at my end.” Tony says.<br/>	Steve grumbles, and throws his shield, trying to knock the thing out of the kid’s hand. Unfortunately, this seems to be what the thing was waiting for, because it shot several rapid bursts that he just barely managed to avoid, except for one final one that hit him as he stumbled backwards on loose rubble.<br/>	“Captain!” Thor yells, hitting a doppelganger out of the way and rushing to Steve’s side.<br/>	When the team finally handles the kid, gets the glowy thing on its way to a Stark Industries lab, and meets by the hole where Steve had been, they find a very angry and very much not their Steve waiting for them.<br/>	“Hey! You guys gonna help a fella out?” He barks, falling back off of a steel rod that he’d been scrambling for purchase on. He’s short, scrawny, his hair falls in his eyes, and he’s dressed in clothes straight out of the forties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is The First Day Of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Work title is from King Of New York from Newsies, and I own nothing recognizable. Nothing. At all. Chapter title is from First Day of My Life by Brand New

“Iron Man! I need some backup over here!” Steve yells, ducking another of the blasts from the weird glowy thing the teenager is holding.

“I really would help, Cap, but I’ve got a bit of a situation at my end.” Tony says.

Steve grumbles, and throws his shield, trying to knock the thing out of the kid’s hand. Unfortunately, this seems to be what the thing was waiting for, because it shot several rapid bursts that he just barely managed to avoid, except for one final one that hit him as he stumbled backwards on loose rubble.

“Captain!” Thor yells, hitting a doppelganger out of the way and rushing to Steve’s side.

When the team finally handles the kid, gets the glowy thing on its way to a Stark Industries lab, and meets by the hole where Steve had been, they find a very angry and very much not their Steve waiting for them.

“Hey! You guys gonna help a fella out?” He barks, falling back off of a steel rod that he’d been scrambling for purchase on. He’s short, scrawny, his hair falls in his eyes, and he’s dressed in clothes straight out of the forties.

“We’ll be down there in a moment,” Tony says - he’s taken off the suit, he claims it needs repairs - and then takes a step back from the hole and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s what he looked like before the serum. My dad- he had pictures, and Aunt Peggy’s got one on the wall of her room at the home.”

“Does he not know it’s us?” Bruce asks, struggling to button up his shirt. De-Hulking always screws with his dexterity.

“I dunno,” Tony says. “I may claim to know everything, but sometimes I just don’t.”

“Hey! I’m gonna slide down there on a rope, okay? Don’t freak out. Purple man with the arrows is comin’ down.” Clint yells into the hole before sticking an arrow into a solid piece of ground and releasing the rope from it and rappelling down.

“Yah shirt’s purple?” Steve says, frowning. “Looks blue ta me.”

“You colorblind?” Clint asks, scooping Steve up. “No one ever told- I mean, I don’t know many people that are colorblind.”

“That’s what tha docs say,” Steve says. “How are ya supposed ta climb back up with me?”

“Like this,” Clint says, grabbing the rope and tugging twice before the rope begins to reel back into the arrow. “See? Easy as pie.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, dropping down to his feet and brushing off the legs of his pants. “Ho-ly cow!”

“What?” Tony asks blandly. “Is it the Asgardian? We can explain away the Asgardian, right?”

“Whadda ya tawlkin’ ‘bout?” Steve says. “Mistah, I mean tha robowt ova thear.”

“Your accent’s ridiculous,” Tony says. “Really really ridiculous.”

“It’s Brooklyn,” A voice says, making them all jump. “And not how he really speaks.”

“Bucky?” Steve asks, and the terrible accent vanishes almost immediately, leaving a tiny trace behind.

“Steve,” Bucky nods, and turns back to the Avengers. “I am surrendering. Just let me help with this.”

“Surrendering? What’s going on? Bucky!” Steve exclaims.

“Don’t worry, Barnes. Unless you start beating anyone up, we aren’t gonna put you in cuffs or anything,” Natasha says calmly. “Steve, you need to come with us. We’re your friends.”

“I don’t know any of you,” Steve shakes his head. “Bucky come on, what’s going on? I cut your hair two weeks ago, how’s it so long already?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Clint says when Bucky doesn’t reply, instead freezing and pulling a hair tie out of his pocket. “I’m Clint Barton. There, now you know me. You’ve missed some time, and apparently lost some too.”

“What does that even mean?” Steve demands, sounding completely exasperated.

“I’m Natasha Roma-” Natasha begins.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” Bucky says, pointing at her, and then moves to the team in quick succession. “Clinton Francis Barton, Robert Bruce Banner, Anthony Edward Stark, Thor Odinson, Samuel Thomas Wilson, James Rupert Rhodes, Katherine Bishop, Steven Grant Rogers, J- Asset.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “That was kinda creepy.”

“I go by Natasha Romanoff now,” Natasha says, eyeing Bucky with more caution than Steve would ever imagine necessary to eye Bucky with. Bucky would never hurt a fly! Well, not unless it tried to beat up Steve first, anyways. “That’s Bruce, Tony, Thor, Sam, Rhodey, Kate, Clint, and of course you know yourself and… James.”

“Bucky,” Steve corrects immediately. “He doesn’t- Doesn’t like James.”

Bucky blinks at Steve much like a child would, and stands in parade rest. Steve frowns and lets the worry show on his face for once in his life.

“Well we can’t really stay here,” Tony says, already working on packing up the Iron Man armor as emergency response vehicles begin to drive up. “At least come with us and get checked up. You might’ve gotten concussed on your fall.”

Steve glances at Bucky and then ducks his head, avoiding Tony’s eyes when he says. “Look, she- Natasha? Yeah, she said you were a Stark. Are you related to Howard Stark? Can I talk to him? He knows me, I know him.”

“Howard Stark,” Bucky nods. “He is long dead.”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims. “Come on, that ain’t true, I just met him two days ago-”

“He’s right,” Tony shrugs, already tense around the edges. “Come with us. You missed too much time to wander around on your own. We’ll get you patched up, caught up, and then you can leave. It’s not like we can force you or stop you.”

“Well, we could,” Clint says. “But we won’t. Because we’re nice.”

“Aw, shut up, Barton,” Kate says. “It’s not gonna convince him any more. Look, Steve, can I call you Steve? Anyways, we’re going to go back to the tower, and Bucky’s gonna come with us since he’s surrendering. And he wants to help you, so it’d be best for all of us if you come with too.”

“Alright,” Steve nods and tugs on his tie, loosening it. The dust and dirt is starting to get to his already weak lungs, and as if on cue, he begins wheezing. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He leans up against a large piece of rubble and starts to cough, each one wracking his entire body.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, his eyes going wide, and he’s by Steve’s side in a heartbeat, a firm hand on his shoulder and a coaxing voice ready to spill from his lips. “Come on, you gotta calm down. Do you want me to carry you to the tower? We can get you medicine. They have medicine now, Stevie. Come on, I’m gonna pick you up. I’m sorry pal, but that’s the way it’s gotta be. No, stay still, just try to relax. I will pinch your ear if you keep squirming.”

And miraculously, Steve stills, glaring at Bucky as he’s scooped up bridal-style, and marched out of the rubble. Steve coughs, wheezes, and gasps the entire way to the tower, and more than one civilian has to be coaxed into deleting pictures from their phones of a tiny de-serumed Steve Rogers clinging to the Winter Soldier for dear life. It would be bad enough with the paparazzi without candid photos circulating people’s blogs.

When they arrive in the tower’s main floor, Bucky sets Steve down, but keeps his right arm around Steve’s shoulders for support, even though Steve tries to shove him off.

“Sir, may I ask why Captain Rogers is much smaller than he was when he left this morning?” JARVIS asks, startling both amnesiac grandpas.

“Who the fuck is that?” Steve practically yells, making a few interns gape.

“That, my friend,” Tony says. “Is JARVIS. Or, Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. He’s our robo-butler. AI. Whatever you want to call him pretty much. Unless it’s rude. He’s very sensitive.”

“Sir, I would like an answer to my previous question.” JARVIS says calmly. And how can a robot be calm? Steve’s day may have been weird at first, but it was getting crazier by the second.

“Fucking alien tech, Jarv, fuckin’ alien tech,” Tony says as the elevator doors ding open, and the merry group of bloodied and dusty Avengers step in. “Common area, please.”

The doors close, and the elevator zooms upwards, much faster and quieter than Steve was used to, and he let the entire group know. “This is a dream, right? This can’t be invented for another decade! And robot butlers? Even Howard couldn’t figure that one out!”  
Tony makes a face at the mention of his father.

“All will be explained when we get you some food and a couch, small one.” Thor says.

Steve stares at his shoes and, after a moment, says “That’s rude.”

“I apologize,” Thor says immediately. “I did not mean to offend. Especially not as dear a friend as you.”

Steve says nothing, but on the inside, he’s practically boiling with anger. He aches from falling into a fucking hole in the middle of goddamned Manhattan, these people have the gall to call themselves his friends when he’s never met them before, and this shakespeare-talking weirdo is being so damn polite. The last one he has no explanation as to why it makes him angry, but when he’s this pissed, he can never explain why some things matter to him.

When they walk out into a kitchen that’s more high-tech than anything Steve’s seen- even at the Stark Expo- Tony throws him a candy bar, which he catches just before it hits him in the face.

“Have a Snickers, Steve,” Tony grins. “You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

This elicits a roll of the eyes from Rhodey, Kate, and Natasha, a stifled giggle from Sam, a sigh from Bruce, a slap to the palm from Clint (seriously, what does that mean? Steve wonders), and a confused look from Steve, Thor, and Bucky each.

“What does that even mean?” Steve asks, looking at the candy bar. And it’s so sleek and shiny and the colours are so rich that even though he’s colorblind he can appreciate it. He almost drops the thing because of how weird it is, as he’s used to wax paper.

“Ad campaign,” Clint says. “Or do you mean the Snicker’s bar-”

“When did they launch a new advert?” Steve asks, frowning and turning the bar around, holding the small print closer to him so he can read it. “Copyright… 2014?”

“You’d better sit down for this,” Sam says kindly, offering Steve a seat at the bar, which he glares at and then ignores. “Or not, up to you, man.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, slamming her hands down onto the counter. “Steve, if you met Howard, that means you already got picked for Project Rebirth, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, not looking anyone in the eye, but instead at Natasha’s left hand. “I’m supposed to go in for the procedure tomorrow. I got a day to go back to Brooklyn and say some goodbyes. They said it was possible I react badly.”

“You don’t,” She says. “You come out of that procedure 100% Pure American Beefcake-”

“Pure American Beefcake?” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Shut up, Banner,” She says primly. “You do some USO tours, you become Captain America, you star in films, you dance around in tights and booty shorts for almost a year, and then you find out Bucky’s been captured by Hydra and it all goes to hell in a handbasket. You rescue him and over four hundred men, start the first desegregated Army division known as The Howling Commandos, star in a few comic books, raze some Hydra bases, and then Bucky falls of a train, you crash a plane, and you take a nice long nap for seventy years. Then you wake up, SHIELD finds you, and you work for them. You save Manhattan with us, and that’s how we meet. After that, you and I go on missions. Clint sometimes tags along, when he’s not picking up strays.”

“Hey!” Clint protests, which isn’t very effective, as Kate lowers her sunglasses at him, and a golden retriever that’s missing an eye bounds up and licks his face. “Down, Pizza Dog.”

“My point exactly,” Natasha sighs. “Okay. So, last April, we’re on a mission for SHIELD, we get our info, come back, and then Fury, Director of SHIELD gets shot, and goes to your place to lay low. Your friend here snipes him from a few buildings over, and you lay chase. You think he’s been dead seventy years, he doesn’t remember you. Later, Fury dies, I tell you I know who it is, and then the next day the Strike Team tries to kill you. We go on the lam, figure out that a file drive came from the same camp you went to, and then when we go there, it turns out Arnim Zola has been downloaded into a computer.”

Bucky’s arm whirrs as he clenches his left hand into a fist.

Natasha gives it a worried look like it’ll attack her before continuing. “The place goes boom, we escape, and we go stay at Sam’s place for a few hours. Then we figure out we have to go stop SHIELD from doing a really stupid thing, since Hydra’s been lurking under the surface for decades, and then your friend rips out our steering wheel on the highway and tries to kill us. During the fight, his mask falls off, and you recognize him. We get arrested, he disappears, we get jailbroken by a dear friend of ours who is currently eavesdropping- hi Maria -we take down SHIELD, you fall out a helicarrier, your friend drags you to safety, and then when you wake up, you try to track him down. Sam goes with you, I go deep under the radar. We meet up a few weeks ago, and you’ve given up your chase. I’ve got my cover back, and we go back to being Avengers.”

“Avengers.” Steve repeats, completely dumbstruck by the fountain of information he’s just been given, most of which he decides may or may not be complete bullcrap.

“You should hear the code names.” Sam grins.

“What are they?” Steve asks. “Can’t be worse than ‘Captain America’, right?”

“Falcon, that’s me,” Sam says. “Hawkeye, both Kate and Clint- gets confusing sometimes over the comms- Iron Man, that’s Tony, Black Widow, that’s Tasha, Bruce is Hulk, Thor is just Thor, and Rhodey’s War Machine.”

“Iron Patriot, actually.” Tony says, and he has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face that Steve can’t help but want in on the trouble.

“Really, Tony?” Rhodey sighs. “You’re gonna do this now?”

“Yep,” Tony says, popping the ‘p’. “That rebrand was truly amazing. The pinnacle of human ingenuity.”

“What’s Bucky’s? Why did he attack me? I want answers.” Steve slams his hand down on the countertop, which has little effect as he recoils and shakes his hand out a moment later.

Bucky perks up at the sound of his name if only minutely, and shrugs off his ratty hoodie, revealing the metal monstrosity fused to his flesh. His t-shirt still covers his shoulder, so he tugs that off too, and stands, barely covered in his undershirt, and much more frightened than a man of his skills has any right to be.

“Metal.” Steve says firmly, reaching out a hand and stopping just short of his friend’s arm.

“I fell,” Bucky frowns. “Off a train. Not your fault. Arm was damaged. Missing past the elbow. Replaced with The Weapon. I was wiped. They trained me. I executed missions. The Asset shaped history.”

“Who- who’s the asset?” Steve asks shakily, his face losing colour at each of Bucky’s words, trailing his eyes across the scars that litter what little of his friend that he can see.

“I am.” Bucky whispers, making a face of disgust.

“Alright, both of you need time,” Sam announces a few seconds later. “Both to calm down and to take in what’s happened. Steve, we’ll have to get you some clothes, can’t have you wandering around in the same outfit for a week.”

Steve shrinks a little at this, he’d always been poor, and that often meant having only two sets of clothes to mix up and rotate out for months at a time, and laundry was only done once a month, because water was expensive, and so was soap. These people must all be fairly rich if they were living in a palace like this, and Tony’s clothes looked the most expensive out of all of theirs, though he was acting as though they were as cheap and common as Steve’s.

“I can’t accept-” He begins.  
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony interrupts. “Money is of no object. Seriously. It would take years and way more creativity than I possess to make even a sizeable dent in my current bank balance.”

Steve stares at him, open mouthed. Even Howard hadn’t treated money so dismissively, though he had only known Howard a few days. Things really must be different these days, if Tony was so dismissive.

“Stop scaring the kid Tony,” Rhodey claps a hand to Tony’s shoulder. “He’s gonna have a heart attack at your unnecessary spending.”

Sam snorts. “I know I have them daily, and I’m an eighties kid, not a twenties and thirties kid.”

“I’m fine,” Steve insists. “Just adjusting.”  
“Whatever, I’m just gonna eat this,” Clint says, stealing a jar of peanut butter off the counter and unscrewing the lid, searching for a spoon, only to find that they were all in the sink. “Aw, spoon.”  
“You can live without peanut butter for the few moments that it would take to wash one of those.” Natasha says cooly.  
“I’m going to go eat my weight in food and then sleep for a year. See you guys later.” Bruce says, waving a hand in the group’s general direction as he leaves the kitchen to retreat to his room.

“He will be fine.” Thor says as Bruce walks right into the 2-foot thick titanium elevator doors and lets out an ‘oof’ of surprise.

“Alright, well, if you want some food, help yourself. I’m going to go order you a new wardrobe, and then get to work on turning you back,” Tony claps his hands together, startling everyone out of their worried thoughts. “Laters.” Rhodey and Kate follow him.

“Your floor is 211, James, you can either accompany him or me. There’s also a gym you have access to, but you’re locked up in the residential floors, Stark doesn’t want you running around in R&D or Business.” Natasha says over the sound of Clint washing a spoon glumly. The water is so clear and has such good pressure that Steve can hardly believe his eyes.

“I will head to the gym.” Bucky says immediately, and turns to the stairs rather than the elevator.

“Told ya before, he don’t like bein’ called James,” Steve huffs, watching the retreating figure of the only person in the entire building he really knows. “Shoulda seen some of the shiners he’d give the boys at school for calling him by his full name.”

“James and I have a history,” Natasha said vaguely. “A very long history. When we met, the only name he knew besides the title they gave him was James. So I call him this.”

“Still.” Steve sighs.

“Go get cleaned up, man, you’re covered in dust and it won’t help your asthma,” Sam says matter-of-factly, not even making a face at the medical condition like most folks do, voluntary or otherwise. “Stark’ll send up some clothes in less than ten minutes if I know him at all.”

“And eat the pizza that’s in your fridge,” Clint adds helpfully. “It’s been there for almost a week.”

“How do you know this?” Natasha raises an eyebrow at the blond.

“I’m the one that took him to Stanley’s,” Clint shrugged. “There were leftovers, and he doesn’t eat his leftovers some of the time.”

“He-I let food go to waste?” Steve splutters. The concept is completely foreign to him.

“You don’t exactly spend a lot of time at the tower, usually you and Sam are out looking for Bucky Bear.” Clint shrugs.

“Bucky Bear?” Steve asks.

“Real long story, Rogers,” Natasha says, smirking slightly. “Go on, go get cleaned up and eat something.”

“What’s pizza?” Steve presses, not moving an inch.

“Round bread with tomato sauce, cheese, and in this case, pepperoni.” Clint says happily.

“Like at Totonno’s, they sells tomato pies there. They call ‘em pizza now?” Steve nodded.

“Pizza or pizza pies, yeah.” Sam says, chuckling.

“Totonno’s is still open,” JARVIS interjects. “And according to their website, they make them the exact same way they have since 1924. If Captain Rogers would like, I could send out for delivery.”

“Maybe.... Maybe tomorrow. Buck’d probably like that, right? Yeah. Maybe it’d remind him of the Cyclone. He always teases me about that.” Steve hesitates, though his voice stays calm and his face remains poker-blank.

“I’m sure he’d love that, Steve,” Natasha assures him. “Go get cleaned up now, none of us are going anywhere. Even James.”

 

 


	2. Please Remember Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still don't own anything, chapter title is from The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine. More chapters to come soon, hopefully. This one is hot off the presses.

The water pressure in the shower is just as good as the kitchen, and there’s so much hot water that Steve stays under the stream for almost an hour before remembering himself. His ma taught him to take up as little as he could manage, it wasn’t polite to take from people who needed things themselves. But, then again, it wasn’t the depression anymore, Tony was filthy rich, surely he could afford Steve taking an hour long hot shower, right?

Steve tries not to beat himself up about it, there isn’t anything he can do about it anyways, he’s already out of the shower. There had been half a dozen very full bottles of different products in the shower, and one worn-down bar of soap that he had just used. He was a little intimidated by all the choices, and the perfumes in the bottles had been a bit much when he opened them to take a sniff, just to see what the future’s idea of cleanliness was like. Something told him most folks didn’t just use one bar of soap anymore.

There’s a tube of this stuff that smells like spices called deodorant, with a description on the back worthy of a dime-store paperback. Steve leaves that alone. Then there’s a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. He thinks he’d at least be familiar with these, but the toothpaste was smoother than the old baking soda and water standard he’s used to, and the brush is kinder to his gums than the old boar brushes. Stuff feels like plastic, almost.

And then, there are the clothes. Tony must have left them on Steve’s gigantic bed when Steve was preoccupied with the hot water. The clothes are softer than anything Steve is accustomed to, and when he looks for his old clothes, thinking he’ll just wear those, they’re nowhere to be found. He sighs and grabs the first shirt his hands fall upon and a pair of jeans that fall much too low on his hips for his comfort, but they’ll have to do. The briefs are strangely well-fitting, and yet not snug. He decides to wonder about this at a later date, his stomach is starting to get angry with him.

He pads out into the kitchen while tucking his shirt in absentmindedly, and almost misses the old woman sitting at the counter.

“They told me it was you,” The woman says in an oddly familiar voice. “That you were like this again. They didn’t say you had adapted to modernity that well.”

“Agent Carter?” Steve asks, almost dumbfounded. His brain is completely breaking down, he just saw Miss Carter yesterday, and now she’s an old woman. He knows it’s technically been seventy years since yesterday, but his brain doesn’t seem to like that.

“Oh, call me Peggy, you always do,” She says, flipping the page in the scrapbook she has on the counter in front of her. “I thought I’d come to visit, show you what you missed. I’ve done it once before, and I can do it just as well again.”

“O-okay,” He says. “Do you want any food? Clint says I have a pizza in the fridge from Stanley’s.”

“Just tea, thank you,” She says, sharing a small and sad smile with him that he doesn’t understand. “Your friend is home again, I hear.”

“Yeah, I-I don’t really know how he’s here, and still the same, yet so different,” He says quietly as he heats up a kettle. “And you too, I mean, I only met you a month ago and then the guy everyone calls Captain knew you for Lord knows how long.” He huffs silently.

“Steve, so much time has passed, and no time at all,” She says delicately. “That seems to be your curse. You were frozen for so long, and when you came out, you were lost. I was the only one left that you still knew, and they threw you back into service without asking. For you, it had only been a week since you lost everything, and for them, for us, it had been seventy years.”

“Yeah, well, can’t name a hero that was happy, can you?” He scoffs as he takes a slice of cold pizza from the box. “They keep saying I’m a hero, so I guess Erskine’s project worked. Not so sure what I did to call me that, though. I just stand up against assholes.”

“I think you might have just answered your own question,” She laughs. “You protect people, you protect good people. You always have, even before I met you. I think that’s why Doctor Erskine liked you so much.”

“I’m not a hero,” He protests. “I pick fights with half the folks in Brooklyn, I can’t hold down a steady job, I swear too much, I drink too much. I’m broken. Everyone knows that, or, well, they knew that. A long time ago.”

“You’re not broken, Steve,” Peggy soothes, her voice hard and kind all at the same time. “You may be disabled- and don’t glare at me like that, you know it’s true. We’ve both read your medical file- you may be disabled, but you are not broken. Everyone swears, everyone drinks. You were self medicating, they had nothing to help you back then. And you never held a steady job because you were a student, and very sick sometimes. Don’t hold it over yourself.”

“Still fought too much,” He says under the blast of the kettle. He pours her mug and turns off the stove. “You said you wanted to show me something?”

“Yes, come on, sit down,” She says, pulling out a stool. “And be careful, these are very wobbly. I thought you would take better care of your furniture, Steven.”

“They’re secondhand,” He says before he can think. He frowns. “How did I know that?”

“Maybe you’re regaining your memories,” She says hopefully. “Or it’s bleed from something repressed. This magic, I never understand it.”

“You think it’s magic?” He raises an eyebrow.  
“Well it certainly isn’t any science I’ve ever seen,” She says, and then points to a faded black and white photograph of two young women and a man who looked very uncomfortable as the two women held them to their sides. “Look here now. This was me, Jarvis, and Angie.”

“JARVIS? Like, Tony’s AI?” He asks immediately.

“Edwin Jarvis, he was the Stark’s butler back when Tony was young. The AI was named after him. Angie, well now, Angie worked at the Automat near where I worked with the SSR after the war. We wound up living in the same apartment complex, and we became good friends. She always knew I didn’t work at the telephone company,” Peggy shakes her head and laughs. “She was a smart one, Miss Martinelli. She became a Broadway star very quickly after Howard moved us into his spare mansion as a favor.” She turns the page to a photograph of her kissing Angie on the lips, and a blurry photo of Howard applying a false mustache and grabbing for the camera.

“You and Angie were together?” Steve asks in surprise.

“Oh yes,” She says, like she’d forgotten it was something to mention. “We had to keep it secret, of course, so we married some friends of ours who were together. After I helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., public scrutiny was so bad it was the only way we could keep it a secret at all. Now, here is when I discovered Howard couldn’t grow facial hair worth a damn, he was so furious at me for taking the picture he threatened to throw us out!”

“Did he know about… About you and Angie?” He asks, and there’s a hint of hopefulness he can’t hide that Peggy picks up on immediately, but only smirks at. “He did, didn’t he.”

“Yes, he did,” She says simply. “Oh, here’s Eddie and his wife, Anna. Charming woman, she was Howard’s accountant for a very long time. They were our best friends for quite some time. And there’s Dugan flirting with Angie, she socked him pretty hard for that one.”

“Dugan?” He asks.

“Your friend, during the war.” She says sadly, as if they’ve done the reverse of this many times.


	3. He's Fast, She's Weird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title obviously comes from Maria Hill's explanation to Cap of what abilities the twins have in AOU. Hope you enjoy! Sorry for the delay, I had a metric fuckton of assignments to turn in before the end of the school year, which is finally over with!

Peggy leaves an hour later with a woman from her nursing home who says Peggy’s been out far too long. Steve can tell what Peggy thinks of that, but the old woman just nods along placidly and follows the young nurse out of the tower.

After the elevator doors have closed, Steve is left to himself. He has no ideas as to what to do- everything is too different for him to even know where to begin- so he heads back down to the common floor and stares at the bookshelf for a while. There’s all sorts of books here, on subjects from theoretical physics to art history, from trashy dime-store novels the dames always whispered about when they thought he wasn’t listening, to epic fantasy tomes the width of Steve’s hand.

He’s still puzzling over the blurb on the back of one of the tomes when a woman with dark brown hair and thick eyeliner pushes the door from the stairs open with her hip, humming some sort of tune as she dries her hair with a towel. Even from the other side of the room, Steve can smell the chlorine coming off her in waves.

“Oh,” The woman says when she spots him. “I didn’t expect- Are you a friend of the Avengers?”

“They keep telling me I am,” Steve snorts. “Sorta. It’s a real long story.”

“Stories are nice,” The woman smiles secretly. “You look a lot like the Captain, did he run into any trouble with the wizard? I told them I could come along, but they insisted I stay and look after my brother.”

“Ties into the long story,” He says apologetically. “What’s your name?”

“I am Wanda,” Wanda says warmly, offering a hand to Steve as she crosses the room. He shakes it firmly. “So, you are the Captain. And you did have trouble with the wizard.” She tuts and shakes her head.

“How’d you figure?” He asks carefully.

“I have a magic of a sort,” She shrugs. “I can tell things about people. See into their heads, sometimes. Miss Hill calls it Mental Telepathy.”

“Right.” He nods, filing the information away for later reference. He’s not sure if he could handle thinking too hard about that right now.

The two stand in silence for a few beats, sizing each other up before going back to their tasks. Wanda, placing a plate in a box that hums loudly for a few minutes before beeping, and Steve, pouring over the tomes.

“Fellowship Of The Ring is the first one,” Wanda says as she leaves, two plates in hand, her towel laying abandoned on the kitchen counter. “But The Hobbit is a prequel, and much more interesting.”

“Thanks!” Steve calls as the door to the stairs shuts behind her. He removes the smaller book titled “The Hobbit” and sits on the floor, his back leaning against the couch as he begins to read. He would sit on the couch, or even one of the stairs, but he’s used to there only being one space to sit, and Buck needing a place to collapse after a long day of double shifts at all three of his jobs.

His reading is disturbed two hours later when the door to the stairs is opened once again, seemingly on its own, and then closed. There’s a blur of colour just out of the corner of Steve’s eye when he looks up, and he stands to get a better view of the area.

“Hello?” Steve asks.

“Sorry!” A boy not much older than Steve with white hair appears out of thin air. “I thought no one was up here, I was just coming to get more books for Wanda and I.”

Steve stares open-mouthed at the boy. He’s tall and muscular, the top three quarters of his hair pure white, while the bottom is brown like Wanda’s, and he’s wearing the tightest long-sleeved shirt Steve’s ever seen. It’s not his appearance that startles Steve, well, none of those things. What startles him, is that the boy has several bandages on his entire body, all of them very close to being in need of replacement.

“Sorry, the speed thing tends to freak people out,” The boy laughs. “I am Pietro, you met my sister a few hours ago, yes?”

“Yeah.” Steve croaks, his voice finally returning to him.

“How are you adjusting to your old form then, Captain?” Pietro asks this question with a glimmer in his eyes that reminds Steve of Peggy’s sad smile, like there’s a reference or a joke he’s supposed to be making that he doesn’t know yet.

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring, and looks down at the book still in his hands. He’d just gotten to Bilbo finding the ring. He remembered reading it, back one fall when he’d been particularly sick and unable to leave his bed. It had been the first cold season since his Ma’s death, and Bucky had stayed with him day and night for three weeks until he was better, causing Buck to lose both of his jobs at the shirt factory.

“It’s not so bad, don’t remember not having it,” Steve jokes. It’s not much of a laugh, but he’s always been known for his dark humor, laughing at things other people might think he was too aware of to joke about. “You should change those dressings before they get infected, you know.”

“I am fine,” Pietro waves off Steve’s concern immediately, like everyone he’s talked to has said the same. They probably have, but that’s none of Steve’s business. What is his business, however, is that Pietro starts to run back through the door, and falls over, clutching his side in pain and his face going white. “Or not so much.”

Steve runs to the speedster’s side, helping him to his feet and depositing him on the couch. Pietro had had to support most of his own weight, as Steve was too weak to carry him as much as he needed, but they got there in once piece, and that was all that mattered to the smaller man.

“When’s the last time you changed these?” Steve asks sharply, already tearing his shirt to make new bandages.

“Yesterday,” Pietro winces, waiting for the reprimand that never comes. Steve’s done the same a few too many times to feel comfortable with hypocrisy. “You don’t need to tear that, there’s bandages on my floor.”

“And this will help until we get back up there,” Steve says calmly, lifting Pietro’s own shirt to get a better look at the wounds. “Looks like you split a few stitches. I’m gonna need you to hold this to it, and put as much pressure on it as possible. It’s gonna hurt like a sonofabitch, but it’s necessary.”

Pietro holds the lump of cloth to his side obediently, searching Steve’s face for any answers he can find as to how the man is so experienced in this skill for one so young. He doesn’t find anything, Steve’s pretty much a closed book unless he wants to be.

“Fuck, that’s really bleeding,” Steve mumbles, and then stands to his feet, staring at the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers, what do you need assistance with?” Comes the cool voice of the AI.

“Call someone up here, tell them to bring a med kit with sutures. And quickly, kid’s lost enough blood as it is,” Steve says. There’s no response from the AI, so he kneels back down next to Pietro and continues removing gauze from wounds. Almost all of them have at least one split stitch, and there’s so much blood oozing out of them that Steve can hardly believe Pietro hadn’t fallen down before then. “Why didn’t you say something to anyone?”

“Didn’t,” Pietro starts to hyperventilate. “Didn’t think it was that bad. Oh Moses, that is a lot of blood.”

“Yep,” Steve says, not daring to lie to the kid. He’s had too many doctors lie to him. “We’ve got help coming, until then, we’re going to keep good pressure on these, okay? I’m going to run to the bathroom and get some peroxide. Keep your hands up there. Good.”

Steve is back just in time to see Bucky burst through the stairwell door, his hair still pulled up in a bun with the red-white-and-blue hair tie and a half dozen medical kits in his arms.

“Fuck did you do this time?” He demands.


	4. Wining and Dining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god it's been a long time since I updated this... Sorry? ANYWAYS here's the new chapter!

It’s only after they have Pietro in Tony and Bruce’s lab a few minutes later that Steve speaks again.

“Why do you always think it’s something I did?” He demands of his friend.

“‘Cause usually it is,” Bucky snorts, and then his face pales and tightens in fright. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for conversation,” Steve bites. “Half ‘a what’s keeping me sane while I train up is knowing you’ll be there to snark at me when I get out on the lines.”

Tony interrupts whatever Bucky’s about to say next by announcing rather loudly that it’s time for dinner.

“Group thing, you know how it goes,” Tony says innocently. “Speedy Gonzalez should be good to go as long as he doesn’t try to run at full speed for a few hours so the medical glue can set. Cap, you’re required to come be sociable, Cyborg here, however, is allowed to eat in his own room if he likes. Same floor as yours, Steve, but just across the hall from you.”

“Thanks.” Steve mumbles sarcastically. He hates eating with people that aren’t Bucky, he’s skipped more than too many meals at the mess hall because of it. Bucky just nods curtly and retreats to the stairs like he’s allergic to elevators.

The small group leftover after Bucky runs heads into the elevator. Steve feels even smaller than usual, the shortest of the four and shivering in an oversized shirt Tony had given him for a band he doesn’t know. He takes deep, calming breaths. No one here is going to try to corner him, no one is going to provoke him on purpose or shove him down for not being able to keep up. Bucky’d probably wail on them if they did, and they seemed like they wanted Steve to be their friend anyways.

Everyone except for Kate and Clint are waiting for them on the common floor, a great bustle of noise as plates are set down on hard wood and chairs are scraped backwards. It reminds Steve of the soup kitchen his ma had sent him to when they couldn’t afford to feed themselves, or the mess hall at the base. The soup kitchen seems like a more apt description, however, as none of the occupants are trying to trip him and most want to talk to him, all ready with open arms and a handful of stories to tell.

“It’s not a sit-down thing, really,” Sam explains when he notices Steve stepping out of the elevator. “It’s a bit like a party, we set the table, but we usually just wind up carrying our plates around the floor. Us three- You, me, and Natasha, that is- usually sit on the floor and talk, but you’re allowed to do whatever you feel comfortable with.”

Steve nods, but the invitation still feels too much like an order, like he’ll disappoint someone if he doesn’t do what he apparently usually does. He picks up an empty plate and loads it with small servings, a scoop of potatoes here, a few ounces of steak there. He makes his plate look fuller than it is by dragging things around, and then joins Natasha and Sam on the floor by the couches, surprised to see a guy with face paint laughing with them.

“Steve, this is Vision,” Natasha says when Steve sits down on the rug, setting his plate beside him. “He’s a cyborg, more so than James, that is.”

“I am much more than a simple cyborg, Natasha,” Vision smirks. “I’m an organic lifeform fused with an Artificial Intelligence’s consciousness and one of the Infinity Gems, a form of magic. There is, to put it quite simply, nothing quite like me.”

Steve doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he stays quiet and starts poking at his plate. He really wishes he’d paid more attention to what he was loading his plate with, his meal seems like a poor farmer’s lunch compared to what the others have chosen, but no one comments on it.

“So, how are you finding the twenty-first-century?” Sam asks a few moments of silence later.

“It’s alright,” Steve says honestly. “Haven’t explored much of it yet, though.”

“You’ll like it,” Natasha assures him. “A lot of things are different, but it’s all mostly the same. People are still people, books are still books.”

But that wasn’t quite true, everything was sleeker and glossier, and the cover of Steve’s abandoned copy of The Hobbit noted that there had been a motion picture made of it. Not to mention he’d lost friendships he’d made with strange people, and all the information he must’ve gathered on the new century.

“How did the mission go, other than Steve’s regression?” Vision asks. Steve notes that he doesn’t have a plate, and that his voice is suspiciously familiar, though he can’t place it.

“Pretty well, we sent the kid off to new-SHIELD to deal with, contained the artifact, just another day at the office,” Sam jokes. “I swear, I’m never gonna be used to this. Why did the world have to go nuts all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden, it was always this nuts,” Natasha corrects, popping a grape in her mouth. “We just weren’t aware of it. Nuts seem to be popping out of the woodwork these days, but they’ve always been hiding in there.”

“What a comforting thought.” Sam deadpans.

Bruce comes up behind the couch and uses a square of glass to turn on the large, flat, black window in front of them all. It acts like a movie theater screen, but Steve can’t see a projector anywhere.

“It’s a television.” Bruce explains, noticing Steve’s frown of confusion.

“They really changed them,” Steve says. “When I was thirteen, Bucky’s Dad’s boss invited the Barnes’s to his house to watch the W2XCR special, and Bucky dragged me along. I was only there for the Forman Sisters’ bit, but it did not look like that.”

“They got a lot better, while you were on ice,” Tony boasts, jumping over the back of the couch to sit in front of Bruce. “Turn on the news, I want to see our faces.”

Bruce taps something on the glass square, and the channel changes on the television, replacing a cartoon with a solemn-faced reporter.

“There is no end in sight for the migrant crisis here in Europe, and the migrant population in Germany is rapidly rising,” She says. “Thousands are being turned away from other countries, and head towards German borders with nowhere else to go-”

“He won’t want to see this-” Bruce mutters.

“No, keep it on.” Steve protests.

He, Wanda, Vision, and Pietro watch the reporter expectantly.

“Both Syrian and Sokovian citizens have been fleeing their home countries in droves, each with heart-wrenching stories.” She says.

The camera cuts to a young girl, barely a teenager.

“I came here by myself,” She says tearfully as a voice translates. She’s wearing a pale blue hijab and a white dress, both smudged with dirt, and her face is blurred out. “My mother and father sent me alone, in secret. I have no family here, but I have been lucky enough to be taken in by an older couple whose children chose to stay at home.”

The camera switches to a pale-skinned boy in grubby clothes more suited for fall or spring than late, oppressive summer. “My mother and father were killed during the attacks from the robot,” The boy says in accented English. He’s barely younger than the twins, who are holding each other tightly. “But my sister is safe and with me. We travelled with our aunts and cousins, to try to rebuild a life in another country. If the Avengers are watching, we’d like to thank you. Especially the woman in red, and the man in running clothes. They saved our lives, and even if they did not save our parents, I’m grateful I get to spend more days with my sister.”

“While they all are fleeing dangerous and unstable homes,” The reporter’s voice says as the camera pans over groups of refugees. “They carry hope for new lives here in Europe. I’m Shawnda Jimenez, and this is NBC news.”

“Christ,” Steve breathes. “Natasha, you weren’t kidding. Things really haven’t changed.”

“No, they have not.” She frowns.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Steve is horribly allergic to something he squirreled away at dinner for later, and is immensely regretting eating it as he lays on the floor of his room and accepts that this is how he dies. Not by nazis in the war, or by a nasty cold, or his mother’s TB, but by some shitty piece of food Stark had whipped up and put on the dinner table that Steve had decided to save.

He’s swollen like a balloon, and his breathing is even more constricted than normal, coming out in harsh wheezes when he can manage it at all. Sometimes, he really hates his body.

Steve’s about to just accept that he’s going to die and there’s nothing anyone can do about it when Bucky bursts into his room in all his messy-haired glory, scoops him up, and carries him up fifteen flights of stairs to Stark’s lab.

Bruce and Tony jump when the door slams open, and openly stare for what feels like hours as Bucky tosses Steve into a chair and rummages in a more medical looking area. Once he’s found what he’s looking for, he stalks over to his friend and jabs it into his thigh. It hurts like a sonofabitch, but suddenly, Steve’s airways are clearing and the swelling is going down just a little bit.

“He needs antihistamines.” Bucky says, and disappears through the stairwell door without another word.

 


	5. Allergies, Yoga, and Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight it's 3 am so I have no idea how good this is but here u go, one chapter, hot off the presses.
> 
> Author's notes at the end because I want to flaunt my researching skills off (sue me) (don't actually I'm a broke high school student with less than $20 to his name)

“So, we need you to make a cohesive list of everything you’re allergic to,” Tony says, drumming his fingers on the lab countertop and avoiding Steve’s eyes. “Since a fire in the SSR’s file room in ‘52 destroyed your medical records.”

“Ask Bucky.” Falls from Steve’s lips before he’s woken up enough to remember that this Bucky isn’t _his_ Bucky.

“Barnes’ noodle is a little…” Tony makes a vague hand gesture, still pointedly not looking at Steve. “Do you want paper and pen? Or we can set you up with a tablet-”

“I’ll do it however is easiest for you,” Steve says, and is immediately handed a glass square the size of both of his hands by a friendly robotic arm. “Thanks.”

He pats the robot cautiously, and it whirls happily before zooming off to the blender on the other side of the lab. The glass tablet has a form already open on it, and tapping one of the fields brings up a little window like a typewriter’s keys. It takes almost an hour to correct the file and enter in all the new information.

“Peanuts, strawberries, lamb, dogs…” Tony mutters to himself. “What about shrimp? That’s what you had last night, we think.”

“Shrimp?” Steve asks.

“They’re a crustacean, like crab or lobster.” Bruce explains from his desk.

“I’ve never had any of that,” Steve’s ears burn. Fuckin’ _rich people_. “Fish is expensive, hell, I can usually only get a pound of cod from the Eriksons for a dollar on fridays.”

“A dollar is chump change,” Tony scoffs, and then considers this for a moment. “Well, nowadays. On average, subway fare runs for about a dollar fifty, I think.”

“Jesus.” Steve hisses, closing his eyes and drawing in a few deep breaths to steady his racing heartbeat before opening his eyes again. He feels like shit. He always feels like shit, but he feels even more like shit than usual. He just wants to go home, back to Brooklyn, back to his shitty paper-thin apartment. Back to his Bucky, not the shade of the friend he can barely live without.

Not that he’d ever admit that. Weakness is something he’s not allowed himself to show since he was a babe. He can’t afford to. Can’t afford a lot of things, these days.

“You know, six percent of the population is allergic to strawberries,” Tony says, like he wants to be helpful but doesn’t know how. “Pepper’s allergic. You’re not the only one.”

Steve doesn’t dignify this with a reply. He doesn’t need Stark’s pity, or his friendship. All he needs is Bucky, and maybe Agent Carter. He hops off the cot he’s been placed on and pads into the elevator.

“Gym level?” Steve says tentatively.

“Of course, Captain.” JARVIS says, and the elevator rockets downwards. Before Steve knows it, the doors are sliding open again to reveal a fancy gymnasium.

There are all kinds of mats, vaults, rings, weights, boxing equipment, what looks like a dance studio (not that Steve’s ever seen one before), and strange machines he’s never seen before. Natasha’s sitting on one that looks like a bicycle and pedaling furiously. Steve notes the white cords dangling from her ears, but doesn’t ask, she’ll probably just try to make it as simple as possible for his poor, old brain-

Where did that thought come from? He shakes it off and pads over to a clear area of floor, stretching and doing basic exercises to the sound of the whirls of machinery and Natasha’s even, but sharp breaths. He’s just started on some fancier stretches when Bucky rolls out a mat of some kind next to him and goes through a few of the ones they used to do together, and a few Steve’s never seen before.

Steve grabs a mat of his own from a rack on the wall, and tries to copy some of the movements even as his spine and his joints protest against him. He falls a few times, not that Bucky seems to notice. He’s trying to copy a fancy move, balancing on his forearms and arching his back to create a ‘C’ shape with his body, when Bucky’s hands press against his hip to help him stretch further.

“Push up more with your left arm,” Bucky nudges Steve’s arm with his foot, and Steve does as he’s told. “There you go. Unbalanced stretching is bad for your spine.”

Steve falls, and it would’ve been a bad fall too if Bucky hadn’t caught him at the last second.

“Oh, bite me,” Steve snaps at his now-throbbing wrist, and Bucky pales considerably. “Not you, Buck. Jeez, I musta twisted it.”

“Does it hurt when I bend it?” Bucky asks quietly, helping Steve rotate his wrist to try to shake off the pain.

Steve nods, biting back a hiss. He’s stronger than this, he’s not going to cry over a little twisted (or sprained) wrist.

“James,” Natasha says cooly, appearing suddenly at Bucky’s shoulder. The white cords are hanging from her shoulder now, on top of a white towel. A neon-pink water bottle hangs from her grip in one hand, and the other rests on Steve’s wrist. “That’s a sprain, Rogers. We better get you up to the science dorks.”

“I’m fine,” Steve shakes his head. “I can splint it myself.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, but removes her hand and leaves the two friends alone.

“I will help you.” Bucky says. Steve nods, he doesn’t know what _this_ Bucky will do if he refuses, but when they were kids, Bucky was always adamant about cleaning Steve up after a fight. Even if he was worse off. Even if the fight had been between the two of them.

Steve heads for the elevator out of instinct, but at the sight of Bucky’s unsure face, he changes his pathway to the stairs. Of _course_ he has to be ten floors up.

Bucky, while looking like a cornered stray that just wants to sprint the hell out of there, keeps his pace slow, only a few steps ahead of Steve at a time, and stands just far enough away from the handrail that Steve could stand right next to him, if he liked. It’s a painfully familiar stance, one that Bucky had adopted after the millionth time the climb to their apartment in the rickety tenement they rented out the summer after Steve’s Ma died caused an Asthma attack.

All the doctors that told Steve it was all in his head can suck it.

Steve takes a moment to catch his breath when they reach his floor, leaning against the wall and wheezing slightly. Bucky leans naturally across from him, scrubbing his lower face with his hand absently.

“Do you know where the first aid kit is?” Steve asks once he’s gained enough breath back.

“Bathroom.” Bucky says simply, making no move to retrieve it.

Steve goes in his stead, cradling the injured wrist to his chest as he struggles to pull it out of the cabinet behind the mirror. Once it finally falls off the shelf, he nearly drops it. He hadn’t expected it to be this heavy.

He sighs and picks it up the best he can, half-carrying, half-dragging it into the living room where Bucky’s sitting patiently on the couch, an arm slung over its back.

The heavy plastic box goes on the coffee table, and Steve has to move a sketchbook, a tin of paints, and a small stack of books with titles like “Code Name Pauline: Memoirs Of A WWII Special Agent”, “Freedom, Liberty, And Justice For All: How Captain America Changed The Media”, and “Surviving The Clutch Plague: Letters From 1936 New York” to be able to sit down close to Bucky. He’s not sure he thinks much about the other him’s reading choices.

“A lotta good stuff in here,” Bucky says conversationally, rummaging through the over-stuffed kit while Steve tries to make himself comfortable. “Moses, you really know how ta keep prepared, huh Stevie?”

Steve frowns, this isn’t the Bucky who surrendered to costumed hooligans two days ago just because Steve lost a few memories and some serum, but he can’t be the same Bucky that Steve wrote a letter to a week and almost a century ago. This week is really fucking with his head.

“I apologize,” Bucky says sharply, and all traces of his faint accent slip away. “I do not know what came over me. You are my superior, I should not-”

“I ain’t anyone’s superior,” Steve says. Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. “Christ, Buck. You’re my best friend, not some random off the street. ‘Sides, even if we were going off military rank here, I’m just a Private.”

“You are Captain America,” Bucky replies, hands finally stilling on a wrist brace with some kind of prickly straps that make Steve think of the nettle bushes at Camp Lehigh he’d fallen into during training. Well, fallen after Hodge had pushed him. “Your rank exceeds mine, even if we are comrades, should I not treat you with respect?”

“Quit talkin’ like a Russki,” Steve snaps, and then rethinks his words. “I shouldn’t ‘a said that. Ekaterine would have my ass for calling anyone that. Just- We’re buddies, Buck. We’ve lived out of each other’s pockets for as long as I can remember, and now you’re treating me like some damn higher-up after you got a disciplinary warning. I’m not gonna punish you for anything you say. Sure, we needle at each other sometimes, but we don’t mean it.”

“Ekaterine?” Bucky asks slowly, gently wrapping the brace around Steve’s hand and tightening it properly.

“You went steady with her for a while, and then she broke it off,” Steve explains. “You never told me why, but the three of us stayed friends. She even stepped out with me a few times when you couldn’t bribe someone to go on a double-date with me.”

“I lured them in with tales of your sparkling personality, doll,” Bucky says instinctively, and then looks up sharply to study Steve’s expression, looking like a cat who knocked over grandma’s ashes. “Sorry.”

“Got nothin’ to be sorry for,” Steve says, and pats the straps of the brace gently. They stick together well, maybe some kind of adhesive? “Thanks for patchin’ me up.”

“If you need me, I will be around.” Bucky says before standing up and leaving Steve on his too-big couch, in his too-big apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of you noticed that Bucky speaks with no contractions and in formal language when he's not in flashback-mode? To those of you who did- points! It's a trope I've been using for almost a year now with recovery!Bucky to show how much progress he's making. I like to think that he views everyone as his superior, and therefore treats them like you would treat a high-ranking official or authority figure. Plus he's hella traumatized because of how badly his 'handlers' treated him, so he's exercising a ridic amount of caution. I could wax poetic about this for DAYS but I will spare you the song :D
> 
> RESEARCH:
> 
> Velcro surprisingly wasn't invented until 1948, who knew? Also, prime-rib steak cost about $.36 per pound circa 1942 but I took some liberty with the fish pricing as it was New York and also seafood. 
> 
> New York subway fare is $2.75, but this is Tony, c'mon. Dude never goes on the subway. He's rich. (I totally didn't just finally google that so I could tell you all how wrong Tony was. No way. U can't prove nuthin', punk)
> 
> No idea on the strawberry allergy percentage, I think I got it out of another fic? Not sure.
> 
> Natasha's definitely listening to "Turn Down For What" and "Black Widow" on loop. You can quote me on that.
> 
> Code Name Pauline is actually a real book! I have it checked out from the library, and it's a pretty good read so far. It's by Pearl Witherington Cornioley if you're interested, and is part of the Women Of Action series put out by the Chicago Review Press ;)
> 
> There'll probably be more plot in the next chapter. Probably. Don't quote me on that.


	6. The Curious Case Of Becca Barnes pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy, I have no good excuse for not posting this sooner. Most of it was done just an hour after the last chapter was published, and the rest of it? Finished in only two hours of dicking around on the internet and writing intermittently. Here you go, cry with me.
> 
> The Civil War trailer dropped today so, that's what prompted me to finish this short little chapter up. Anyone who guesses who says the last line here, you get five brownie points and I will write a chapter based on a prompt from you.

Steve wakes late that night to a loud, solid thunk from the room across the hall. Bucky’s room.

Then the screaming starts.

It’s unintelligible at first, too panicked to mean anything, and then it becomes a steady cry of “No” and “Please”. Steve rolls out of bed, slides the shield out from under it, and tiptoes across the hall without thinking about it. He takes a deep breath, counts to three, and knocks on the door.

“Bucky, I’m coming in.” He calls over the cries. There’s no response, not that he’d expected there to be, so he opens the door.

Bucky’s backed himself against the far wall, he’s fully dressed in a v-necked three quarter sleeve shirt and tactical pants, with combat boots and probably an array of weapons hidden around his person. He’s trying to push himself into the wall in a desperate move to get further from the door, wailing in anguish and tearing at his face and hair. There’s already a sizeable dent in the wall.

Steve drops the shield with a _CLANG_ and walks swiftly to his friend’s side.

“Buck, talk to me,” He says firmly, keeping a solid foot between them, but outstretching his hand in a gesture of comfort and calming. “What’s going on?”

“No, no, please,” Bucky wails. “PLEASE!”

“Buck, it’s me, it’s Steve,” Steve has to shout now, as Bucky’s pleas grow more constant and reach louder volumes each time. “I’m your friend!”

Bucky quiets suddenly, and Steve has to concentrate for a few moments as the ringing subsides in his good ear.

“Mission-Friend-Mission-Friend- _Mission-Mission-Mission-Friend-_ ” Bucky mutters. It’s not quite panicked, but it’s close. “Mission?”

“Buck,” Steve says. “It’s Steve. It’s me, you’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Mission,” Bucky repeats, and slumps to the ground. “Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America. Mission parameters: eliminate. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Blond. Height: Six-Foot-Two-Inches. Weight: Two hundred and twenty pounds. Distinguishing features: Crooked nose. Mission status: Failed.”

Steve kneels beside his friend and sets his hands in his lap, accepting that this is probably as calm as Bucky will get.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and you’re my best friend,” Steve says, staring determinedly at a dent in the plaster of the wall caused by Bucky’s flesh hand. The dent created by his metal hand had gone clean through, and there are a few suspiciously live-looking wires sticking out. “You were born in Cork, Ireland on March Tenth, 1917. I called you Bucky because for the longest time, you had bucked front teeth.”

“Your name is Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky says, and Steve’s heart leaps into his mouth, thinking that Bucky might attack him. “Your mother’s name was Sarah, you are named after your father, you wore newspaper in your shoes to make you taller.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his face now, Steve takes that as a good sign.

“You had a little sister named Rebecca, your Ma’s name was Winifred, and your Pa’s name was George. Every week on the Sabbath, which was Friday for you, your parents invited me and my Ma over, and your father would recite kiddush. Then on Sunday, you’d wake up and run over to my place to wake me up so I wouldn’t be late for church, and sat with me in the pews even though you used to fall asleep all the time.” Steve says. If Bucky wants to trade facts about their life to help him, Steve’s all for it. He could do with a little familiarity.

“When you found me, I thought you were a hallucination because you were so big,” Bucky says. Hot, fat, tears are rolling down his cheeks now. “I used to call you Stevie, and you _hated_ it. You do not smile or laugh much, especially since Sarah died, but when you do, you light up like… like…”

“Like a christmas tree?” Steve asks, head lolling back as he eases into a more comfortable position, leaning against the untouched, tightly-made bed.

“Like a christmas tree,” Bucky agrees, and wipes at his face. “No matter how many times they tried to take you from me, I always remembered in the end.”

“One time, you got _so mad at me_ ,” Steve laughs. “I can’t even remember why anymore, but we didn’t talk to each other for days. But then Kevin had to be Kevin, and you pulled me outta a scrape I started with him over some stray cat in the alley. You were still pissed, but you helped me back into my Ma’s apartment and patched me up.”

“You got sick so much,” Bucky says. “And we were both very poor, so I would steal marrow bones from the butcher or soap from the store when it came down to that or your medicine.”

“I know,” Steve breathes. Bucky had always pretended like Steve didn’t notice the extra laundry soap, or the fresh vegetables when Steve had counted out only enough for medicine and some broth. “When we would walk down to Coney, just sit in the sun all day, I would start sketchin’, and you would wander off. If I ever asked, you said you were chasing some dame or swimming, but I watched one time. I saw you pull a man’s wallet out, take a dollar, and put it back before he even knew you were walking past him.”

A projector starts up, startling both of them, and a man with Steve’s face, but a muscular body, starts to speak.

“I remember the day your parents had to drop Becca at the orphanage,” Screen-Steve says. He’s wearing a red sweater, and his face is flushed with cold. Steve doesn’t recognize his screen counterpart’s surroundings. He can see his breath in the video. “She was just three years old, you were thirteen, and your parents just left her there one morning. You woke up that day, and when you couldn’t find her, you screamed loud enough _I_ heard you. I don’t know if you remember- I lived half a block away from you.

“Your parents explained, and you were furious with them, obviously. God, I don’t think I’ve seen you that mad since then,” Screen-Steve shakes his head. “Well, maybe during the war. That last mission, if you hadn’t fallen off the train, I’m sure you would’ve ripped Zola’s head right off. I don’t think I’d’ve stopped you. I’m getting distracted- where was I?”

“How mad he was,” Natasha’s voice prompts. There’s the sound of someone moving dishes around in the background, then a small crash as something breaks. “Woops.”

“You were pissed, as I was saying,” Screen-Steve continues. “You ran away from home that night, but you didn’t know where to go, so you came to my house. Mind, I was down with scarlet-fever, so Ma had the entire apartment quarantined off. You just burst in, came into my room, and sat yourself at my bedside. Your parents came calling about an hour later, but by then, you and I had fallen asleep while reading. You wouldn’t go home for two weeks, your Da kept showing up with food for you in the mornings on his way to work, had to make it himself since your Ma was in a fit of rage after you. I nearly died about three times, but you never left my side. Eventually, I got better, and I convinced you to go talk to your parents about it all,

“They couldn’t afford you _and_ Becca staying with them without you getting a job, and had figured you’d want to stay in school. You dropped out immediately and started working, but they made you go back. Orphanage wouldn’t let them have Becca back anyways, they’d signed away custody already. I don’t think you ever forgave them for that, not ever,” Screen-Steve pauses for a moment, brow furrowing as he accepts a mug of something from Natasha. “The two of us would sneak down to see Becca every weekend, make sure she was happy and healthy. The nuns didn’t like that, so they banned us, but we snuck in once a month after that. Then there was this big storm that winter, we got caught out in it on our way home from the orphanage. Ma was worried sick, but your folks thought you were with me, so they assumed you were fine. Don’t think they ever found out- Anyhow, we finally made it back, real late that night, and my Ma was having fits, she thought we were dead.”

He takes a long sip before speaking again. “She told us that if we ever went back there again, she’d skin us both. Next time we saw Becca, I was graduating high school, and she was just starting in first grade. We were helping the teachers guide a school trip, and she didn’t recognize us in the slightest. I was stayin’ at your place that night, and I woke up real late in the night ‘cause you were crying your eyes out. I hadn’t even begun to imagine what that did to you, spending the whole day with your baby sister, only for her to not know you.”

The projection cuts out, and Steve’s glad of it. He remembers that day, it had been only four years ago, after all. Well, four years and almost a century.

“There’s someone outside the door.” Bucky says quietly. Steve jumps, he’d been so caught up in his head, in the projection, that he’d forgotten where he was.

He stands and trips over his shield on the way to the door. Frowning, he picks it up. When had it become _his_ shield? When had he even gotten a shield? How had he known where to find it, or how to wield it? All questions for another time, a time when there wasn’t a concerned teammate waiting outside.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, shield still in hand as he leans casually against the doorframe. He knows he’s a mess, and wouldn’t be caught dead in his current state if it weren’t so urgent. He’s only wearing his boxers and a hastily thrown on pair of flannel pajama pants that hang too low on his high hips, and his hair is ruffled and greasy from a long week. Not to mention the heavy bags under his eyes.

“Really hate to call on you Cap, but the tower’s under attack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
> 
> the projection gag I used here I totally stole from another fic that I ADORE. Please go read it, it's on this site and it's called "Pull apart the dark" and it's by the lovely togina. Full of angst, laughs, and, of course, baby Steve. All in all, best fic ever? Probably.


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